


boy, come on and get my rocks off

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which louis fucks a girl but i totally wrote it in second person so you can just imagine it’s you, you’re welcome</p>
            </blockquote>





	boy, come on and get my rocks off

It’s a Thursday in December and you’re really not dressed to be out. 

It’s negative five degrees Celsius and you’re wearing a thin (if you were back in Florida, this would be considered thick, but you’re in Manchester, for God sakes) blue jacket and tights with fucking holes in them.

But you needed to get out because the silence in your flat was getting smothering.

You’re just wandering at the moment, walking through the streets, willing your legs and the entirety of your body, really, not to freeze. You’ve taken to doing this now; dressing yourself up like you’re not the saddest, loneliest fuck there is and simply wandering, wandering until you either find something worthwhile to do for the night or make your way back home to spend the night with a pint of peanut butter ice cream and tears.

Tonight, your blood is thrumming slightly from the two glasses of wine you’d had before you left, and your boots are slipping over wet cobblestones. You can hear the dull thud of music up ahead, and parties aren’t normally the thing you do on this trysts out into the real world, but these tights really show off your legs so there’s no use wasting it.

The flat’s got two stories, it seems, and the door is painted red and closed tightly but the windows are open. You stand on the step and contemplate knocking, but then you realise that you can see your breath in a very distinct cloud and you rationalise that it’s simply too cold to use your manners.

You walk through a narrow hallway into an open room and there’s dubstep playing. You cringe. The kitchen is to your left and the staircase is tucked into a corner on your right. There’s a strobe light and about a hundred bodies pressed together and you smirk because it’s alive in here. And then someone bumps into you and spills some kind of liquor on your jacket and you shove them off because maybe it’s a little too alive. At least, for a sober mind.

The kitchen, you find, is less packed than the main room and you’re thankful because it’s much more pleasant to get drunk without the risk of spilling something down your front from being jostled.

There’s a keg on the island in the middle of the floor and you shrug your jacket off while walking over, drape it over the back of a chair, grab a cup from the stack and fill it generously.

There’s a small gaggle of people near the sink, and there’s incessant chattering from a body sitting on the counter and sporadic laughter and you’re intrigued, you want to laugh, but you’re still not drunk enough to really let yourself go so you down your first cup of beer and reach for the vodka bottle. Vodka is your favourite because it burns.

You’re sipping sparingly and leaning back against the island, facing the group near the sink, and then the circle’s opening up and you see him. He’s holding a bottle and he’s in a grey beanie and a black shirt with a union jack design on it and he’s barefoot and he’s got his legs hooked at the ankles and he happens to be smirking directly at you like he knows he’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve seen all night. Ever, really.

His eyes are a piercing blue, you can tell from here. And there’s some mischief in them because they’re narrowing and his smirk is growing and he’s beginning to talk to a girl with purple hair standing next to him but his eyes are still on yours. You think maybe he’s as intrigued with you as you are with him, so you do the only rational thing you can think of:

You hurriedly finish your vodka and all but speed walk back out to the dancing in the main room.

It’s not that you don’t want to, you rationalise, it’s just that you’re…nervous. You haven’t had a decent hookup since you arrived in Manchester, and something about those eyes makes you feel they’ve seen some greatly remarkable things. You didn’t think you could compete.

The thrum of your blood is more of an insistent buzz now, and your brain is beginning to lose weight. You slip past the sweaty bodies and close your eyes and let the bass settle in your chest. You let it vibrate your weightless brain and tell you how to move. And you’re dancing with yourself and that’s fine because you’re (kind of) interacting with other people and you’re (more than kind of) drunk and now there are hands wrapping around your hips and you’re just going with the flow for once in your life, isn’t it grand? Then the song is changing and it’s a Ke$ha song and you laugh a quick laugh and let your head fall onto the shoulder of the person dancing against your back and yell that you actually love Ke$ha a lot. And then you crack your eyes open and all you see is blue and there’s a heat that curls in your gut.

He says he saw you watching him in the kitchen and you smirk and bite your bottom lip. You turn around to face him and his hands are still on your hips and you lock your fingers behind his neck and look up and _wow, he is really pretty, isn’t he?_ You’re not sure that smirk ever leaves his face and from this close you can see the little crinkles next to his eyes and his eyes are so blue and you’re sure the temperature has raised about 5 degrees. He calls himself Louis and now you’re watching his lips because those are just as pretty as the rest of his face and now you’re thinking unpleasantly pleasant thoughts that involve that face being between your legs. You mumble your name and he repeats it, and there’s that heat again, because he says it in such a pretty way. He mentions that he’s never seen you before and you almost tell him about your sad wandering but you catch yourself and instead state offhandedly that he must not have been looking hard enough. He laughs and you wonder what sound he makes when he comes. And then you know your cheeks have flushed so you duck your head, move your hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear but somehow that seems to throw your balance off and you’re stumbling forward a bit, feeling his hands grip your hips tighter as you fall into him. And he’s warm, oh, so warm, and really, how are you already this drunk? The mischief is back in his eyes and he asks how much you’ve had to drink. You say enough. He says good and then his pretty mouth is on yours, the hands on your hips pulling your bodies flush together and _is he getting hard, did you do that?_

Your hands go back to his neck, move to play with the hair sticking out of the bottom of his beanie and he makes a pleased humming noise in his throat, which spurs on another burst of heat and you’re tracing your tongue across his bottom lip, wanting in, wanting to hurry this along because you’re drunk and he’s pretty, okay?

But now he’s pulling away and you’re whining and thankfully he can’t hear you over the music. He pulls back to look into your face and now there’s a nuance to his eyes; they’re twinkling and sparkling and slightly frightening again. But still intriguing. Enticing.

He asks if you want to go somewhere a bit more private and you laugh and lean up to tug his bottom lip with your teeth. He takes that as a yes and directs you toward the stairs, guiding you along in front of him by your hips.

He’s kneading the skin on your hipbones with his fingertips, digging the pads in, and you look over your shoulder to see him still fucking smirking. There’s a wave of something dominant in you and you want to wipe the smirk off and see what other looks he can give.

The first door to your right is a bedroom. You know because you can hear giggles and moving bedsprings through the door. Louis mutters a curse under his breath and bursts into the room, yelling at the couple (the purple haired girl from the kitchen, apparently called Perrie, has gotten herself a nice looking and deeply tanned boy called Zayn, it seems. kudos to her) to get the fuck out of his room before they stink up his sheets with their sex. They both only roll their eyes and leave the room joined at the hand.

Louis shuts the door behind them and turns around, looks at you sheepishly and suddenly he looks extremely younger than he originally did, as if finding two of his (apparent) mates about to knock one out in his bed has completely set him back. But you just shrug, kick off your boots and walk forward, press your hands against his stomach so his back is flat against the door. You ask him what he plans to do with you now that he’s got you alone in his room. And then the mischief is back.

And he’s gripping you by your hips and shoving you to the bed, rough in the best way, and when you fall to lie on your back, he tugs his beanie off and hovers above you. There’s warmth rolling off of his body in waves and you shiver, because his pupils are definitely blown and you’re sure yours are too and it must have been a really _really_ long time since your last hookup because everything about this blue eyed boy is making you hot.

You tangle your hands in his hair and pull him down for a kiss. He’s the one to touch tongue to lip this time, and you let him in and he tastes like wine coolers and you would think it was funny, if he hadn’t have chosen that moment to start rutting against your hip. You’re not complaining though, because he’s warm and you realise you’re kind of throbbing with a bit of need, with a bit of want, and what you want more than anything is for that fruity tongue to lick you until you scream.

You break away from his mouth to pant and he moves his mouth to your neck, and you’re suddenly very glad your mother called off going out to dinner tonight because you just know you would have burst into flames at the table for missing this.

He bites at the spot between your neck and shoulder and an embarrassing sound slips out. Then he starts licking and sucking and you can’t really take it anymore.

You wrap your legs around his waist and squeeze, and he looks up and his mouth is red and kiss bruised and you whimper, and tell him you want his mouth, and he full on smiles then, a sweet smile that you have to look away from because you’re not to keen to make any more unexpected noises.

He moves down the bed quickly, telling you to lift up so he can get your tights off. You pull your dress over your head as well, and when you lay back, he pulls the elastic of the waistband and snaps it against your stomach, then pulls them off completely. He smooths a hand up your stomach and between your breasts and then around the side of your neck, leaning in to whisper that he quite likes your tights because they show off your pretty legs. And then he’s reaching down to rub at you through your underwear, watch his hand as it goes down your body and then he’s looking back up, smirking, and telling you that you’re soaked.

Which, really, like he _didn’t know._

He’s rubbing in big circles, teasingly slow and you place your hands on his shoulders because you know you’re going to need something to hold onto during this. Then he’s moving back down your body and mouthing at you through cotton.

The last hookup you’d had was a few months ago, when you were visiting a friend in Boston. He’d been called Harry and he was attending Harvard, studying law, and he’d had fingers like sin and lips to match. You’d spent the night with him and kissed his cheek when he walked you to the door because he deserved it, for how good he was. But he had been younger than Louis, you know. And Louis was a bit better.

He runs his teeth over you and your thighs tremble. His breath is hot and even through your underwear it’s overwhelming. He slides your underwear down your legs then, as if he read your mind and decided to show you just how overwhelming it could get. You slide your legs up so your feet are flat and move your hands down so you can card your fingers through his hair.

The first touch of his tongue is heaven. He flattens it against your clit and moves it in tiny circles, and the wet heat of his tongue is bliss.

Everything after that is hell.

Because then he’s sucking your clit into his mouth and licking at it while it’s inside. Then he’s planting these teasing little licks to you and you’re mewling and moaning, you know you are. Then he’s circling around you and then he’s dipping his tongue inside and he’s fucking you with it, properly, thrusting his tongue in as deep as he can. And you’re loud, thankful for the awful music playing downstairs and your eyes are rolling about, you probably look possessed. But that’s okay because then he’s moving his mouth and sliding a finger in and looking up at you. And his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glazed over and his mouth, it’s glistening and shining and so red and swollen and it’s too much and you make a pained sound when you come, somewhere between a loud moan and a sob. And you don’t even let yourself recover, you just pull him up to your mouth by his hair and you realise he still has all of his fucking clothes on so you tug impatiently at his shirt and when he stops to pull it over his head, you hurry with his belt, undoing it and trying to shove his jeans down without undoing the button or zipper as well.

He chuckles down at you and comments on your eagerness, but he’s also hurrying to get his jeans and pants down and then his cock is free and even that is pretty and you pull him down for hungrier kisses, all tongues and teeth and roughness, and he reaches down to grab a condom from his jeans’ pocket. You help him slide it on and then you’re back in heaven because it hurts so good. His rhythm is deep; not too fast, not too slow, and every thrust shift your legs up so that your feet lift off the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist and that changes the angle and fuck, actually this is better than heaven, you think. Like, there’s heaven and then there’s sex with Louis Blue Eyes.

You realise then that you don’t know his last name and you would think it was funny, if he hadn’t have chosen that moment to speed up his thrusts and drop down off his hands to his elbows so you can hear his pants in your ear.

And your head is spinning and your skin is so tight, you’re afraid it’ll rip off your body. And you’re close, so close, and you think he is too because he’s fucking into you fast now, blindingly fast, and still deep and he’s grunting with it now, with every thrust, like he’s putting everything into it, and you move your hands from the sheets to his back and dig your nails in. And he groans and you can’t take it, biting his shoulder and screaming as you come again, keeping your eyes open and probably looking like a wounded animal but not caring because he’s coming right after you, his eyelashes fluttering and his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he lets out a long, low groan.

And then he pulls out, tosses the condom onto the floor and flops bonelessly onto you and if he hadn’t just fucked you so thoroughly, you’d hit him. But you let him rest his head on your chest (you even run your fingers through his hair, smooth it off his forehead) and you fall asleep.


End file.
